Falconmaster
by Moon Lantern
Summary: Yorkist England 1485: The Doctor and Clara find themselves in the company of England's most mysterious King, can they trust him and gain his trust? They realise that there is something much more sinister and "Time Lord" about the War of the Roses, and an ancient Gallifreyan power has awoken. How far would you go to battle established history? 11/Clara/Richard. Rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1-The Last of his Kind

Falconmaster

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**Author's Note: Here's the latest of my stories! What if the Doctor and Clara find themselves in Yorkist England 1485? What if they found that there was something more sinister and more Time Lord to the whole War of the Roses? How far will they be prepared to shape established history? Can they trust England's most mysterious King and can he trust them?**

**A special dedication for this story goes to Dolphin Melody (xxxdolphinmelodyxxx) for helping me with the concept and making it more "Time Lord"! Thanks!**

**Please remember that this isn't a history textbook, some things will be historically accurate, other things will be down to my interpretation and my artistic licence. I'll try and state in future Author's Notes that I'm deviating from history.**

**I thought Aneurin Barnard's portrayal of Richard in the White Queen was amazing, so he'll be MY Richard.**

**Also, you might want to read my story called White Rose and Red Heart, you can see it as a many years prelude to this story, if you want.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, or any of its characters, all credit goes to the BBC for that.**

**Rated T for violence and death.**

**So without any further ado, here's the prologue and first chapter!**

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Prologue

"Open the gate!" Harrington ordered.

The gate of Leicester City was rolled open with an ancient groan, as a platoon of horses entered bearing bruised and battered men. All wore a solemn expression as they trooped into the city, which was full of women, children and older folk, who had anxiously stepped out of their homes to beg for answers.

"Where is the King?" asked an onlooker.

"He is here," a raven haired man responded, for he was King. But he wore no crown and his face was grazed, his breathing heavy, as was his heart. He descended from his horse and walked amidst the crowd. He sighed.

"Henry Tudor will be here by tomorrow morning!" the King declared. "By Royal Decree, I order all the citizens to evacuate."

The crowd began a gasp of panic. There were cries of desperate sadness, gushing like blood from a wound.

"Enough!" roared the King. The crowd fell silent, his air of calmness returned. "My men will help you to evacuate and make for safer cities. Tudor will want to finish with me, so I will prepare for siege!" With that he ordered the controlled and orderly dispersion of the citizens, as Pilkington helped them find a carriage out of the city to head somewhere safe. There were rows of hundreds of people being wheeled out, like an army of ants. The physician was hovering around the remaining soldiers, dusting their cuts and minor injuries; they would need all their depleting stamina had to offer.

The King sighed, pondering the fate of all these men. Bosworth had been a disaster, but when Tudor would arrive the city will be starved, burnt and utterly destroyed, because the real victor was someone far more ruthless and terrible than Tudor. Their situation was hopeless and the men saw it.

Meanwhile, another black haired man paced around the abandoned courtyard nervously; his hair messy, unlike its usual sleek form. He wore silver and white chainmail, but a collar of a grey shirt encompassed his neck, and something was clearly missing.

"Doctor!" the King called, limping over to him and placing a hand on his shaking arm. "Are you all right?" But that was a stupid question, for even without the Doctor's heartbroken eyes it was obvious that he was not. The King even knew why he was not all right and it pained him as well.

"It's all my fault!" the Doctor shuddered. "I-I should have..."

"Doctor, there's nothing you can do, I'm afraid," the King said hoarsely.

"What are they doing to her?" the Doctor demanded. "I should have got her another horse! If I wasn't too busy BEING A SHOW OFF!"

"Doctor, please, lower your voice!" the King growled, but his anger subsided for a sentimental look in his eyes- not pity, but empathy. "It will do you or no one any good to persist in blaming yourself."

"Richard, please..." begged the Doctor. "We need to save her, even if it's me who has to go! She doesn't deserve this... none of it..."

"I know," the King croaked. "I know." He exhaled and swallowed. "Doctor, I will ride out with you, but you are aware of what you are asking me to do, aren't you?"

The Doctor's words were caught in his dry throat. He knew what this meant, and so did the King, but there was no anger in the latter's voice, just a touch of resignation.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, your Grace... I am sorry."

The King waved away the apology and a part of his mouth uplifted into a faint and grim smile. "Very well, but I need you to tell me the whole truth now! Hold nothing back, no matter what!"

The Doctor nodded.

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Chapter 1- The Last of his Kind

They say that it's the people not the place that make the home. But the place is what reminds you of what home feels like, or felt like all those days or years ago.

Richard Plantagenet cleared the growing lump in his throat, as he stood on the green moors before a strong and mesmerising yet homely fortress that he knew too well- Middleham Castle.

He had called this place his home, he had felt at home here when he had played here as a little boy; he had felt at home here when he lived her as Duke of Gloucester, when his life had been much simpler, when he had been able to say what true happiness was and that he had felt it, when he wasn't King.

That felt like a lifetime ago. Richard realised, on this late April day of 1485, he had not set foot in Middleham Castle for a whole year, and even then it was an occasional visit. Being King had compelled him to move and reside in London, so Middleham had provided a comforting relief.

"Are you all right, your Grace?" a large burly red haired and bearded man said gruffly.

Richard gave a weak smile. "Yes, Brackenbury, thank you."

Sir Robert Brackenbury nodded and a twinkle of a smile grew. He had volunteered to accompany the King, who trusted him profoundly.

"I'll be all right to go on a little by myself," Richard requested. Brackenbury bowed and excused himself to take the horses to the stables.

The white clouds watched in anticipation as Richard slowly stepped onto the cobbled path that he had walked on so many times. The front gate led to a garden full of a cluster of bed and wall flowers that bowed and curtsied in the breeze, and Richard felt like bowing back. For a few moments, the sun shone a little brighter before the white clouds covered her, as Richard made his way past the courtyards and inside the mahogany door. His footsteps echoed with every beat of his heart, which both consoled yet numbed him.

Despite there being still servants and wardens to run this place, it felt deserted, ghostly even.

Richard turned into a large study room where the sunlight edged through the window and brought his attention to shortbow laying on the table below the hooks. He moved in to place bow in its rightful place.

However, Richard's fingers swept over the dust over some sort of carving.

_"Amistad me liga," _Richard read fondly. This bow had been a gift for him, when the giver had gone to Spain, but then Richard's heart caught in his chest.

_A shabby and ragged man with a beard clutched the bars of his prison cell as a younger man was dragged into another. The first man desperately looked at Richard._

_"Richard, please!" begged the man._

_However, when Richard spoke it was not in his own voice. The new voice belonged to Ricardus- his voice and eyes were a deathly cold chill. The next few words burned on Richard's heart._

_"I am not Richard!" he growled. "I am His Grace- too bad you will never see me crowned!"_

Richard gasped with his blood burning with heat; he quickly put the bow back onto the table like a child caught trying to steal sweets. His conscience censured him with guilt; he did not deserve to lay hands on this bow.

Richard marched out of the room, refusing to relive the rest of that memory- he couldn't. It would be too much.

Like an invisible man, who ignored the occasional nods of the few servants in the castle, he made his way to a large hall at the back of Middleham Castle. It was not the main dining hall, but more of an auxiliary venue for indoor music and sports. There was a high pale roof, which was surrounded by the three carvings of the lions. The wall had several paintings of all those who had lived here including Richard Neville, former Earl of Warwick and Kingmaker, his cousin; Francis Lovell, his good friend from childhood; there was even a portrait of himself, dressed in a black and dark green robes, with some yellow stitching. But it was a bronze chest that beckoned him.

Richard, breathing heavily, slowly lifted the lid, which easily obliged. He dusted off the piece of cloth inside, but realised it was so much more than that, for it was a banner. The background was a sky blue, and as Richard spread it out on the floor, he saw the white falcon gliding- one of the emblems of the Plantagenets, his ancestors. He fondly stroked the design and smiled wistfully, realising that unlike most designs this one did not feature the falcon locked in the golden fetterlock- no, here the falcon was unburdened as he glided through the air with grace.

Richard remembered where he had first seen this design: many years ago when he was five or six. His father, the Duke of York, had a miniature chainmail armour made for him and this emblem was on it. York had told him, and each of his children that they would all have something to give in their own way. What had Richard given? He did not know. Edward, Edmund and George were all dead, Margaret was in Burgundy dealing with her late husband's lands, his other sisters were either married somewhere or no longer in this world. Richard did not feel free like the falcon, but he felt like the golden fetterlock was closing around him.

Like a reluctant man, Richard slowly put the banner away and shut the chest shut and pushed it into a corner, before covering it with a dirty white cloth. The House of York had a proud history, yet it was no longer what it was.

Richard's heart was heavy with dread and anticipation- so far he had managed to keep his composure, despite the great difficulty. He knew where he was heading next; he had to do this; he couldn't forget- he didn't want to. That's why he had come here in the first place.

Richard ascended up the stone stairs and found the room near the north side. He almost felt like he was intruding and a part of him forbade him from entering, but he resisted.

Slowly edging the door open, a ray of warm light swept through him, as he looked in. The four-poster bed was beckoning him with promise of rest. He half expected Edward, his late son, to come dashing around with his cousins Margaret and Edward, who everyone had called Ned, Megan and Ed to avoid confusion with their other kin.

But they were nowhere to be seen and the short burst of warm sunlight began to fade.

There was something else about this room that Richard sensed deeply in his soul. He picked up a long navy scarf, green dress and a set of smooth neck beads that were lying around. They smelt and felt like her. Exactly as Richard had remembered, like he had savoured for over ten years. Years that had slipped away too soon.

Richard sat down on a small stool and clutched the fabric and beads to his lips and kissed them and held them with a trembling hand. Sometimes, as Duke of Gloucester, he would rise early and sit on this stool and watch her peacefully sleep, which would fill his heart with fond content. But no more, it was all just a memory that was fading with time, a memory that he would never experience again.

It had been more than a whole month, and Richard missed her; he thought and dreamt about her everyday and every night, hoping that this was just a dream and he would awake to find her snuggling next to him.

But his bed in London was always too big- too vacant and too cold. The absence of a loving kiss, a comforting touch or a sympathetic ear was a luxury that he no longer had.

This was all he had left of her, all that he ever would. He knew that the show must still go on and that his country needed him, yet he longed for her just once more to give him that bit of strength and encouragement like she had always done. But she and Ned were both gone from here.

Richard's tears began flowing down his cheeks as he wept holding the last bit of her close to him. He was only thirty-two, yet he felt old and worn. He was one of the last of the Plantagenets and the last of his kind.

Suddenly, a most mysterious sound- almost like a wind in a cave- echoed from behind him. Richard jumped to his feet and drew his sword.

To his horror, a small blue cabin had appeared out of thin air. The door flew open and a man, in what could be described as an insanely small dark coat, dashed out. He was followed by a girl in a lilac tunic and black breeches that had to be men's.

"Wensleydale!" the black haired man began. "Home to..." He stopped, realising who was before him.

"Doctor, I don't think we got it quite right," the brunette girl said sheepishly.

"What is the meaning of this?" Richard demanded. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Well..." the man called 'Doctor' began.

"You!" Richard snapped dangerously, pointing his sword at the red rose on the girl's tunic. "You are Lancaster! You are Tudor loyalists!"

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**Author's Notes: Well, that's awkward!  
**

**I hope you enjoyed that! Please leave a review**


	2. Chapter 2- The Earl and the Lady

Chapter 2- The Earl and the Lady

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**Author's Note: Hello all! Thank you so much for your reviews for the last chapter, sorry for the delay, but I have been really snowed under with work. I will try and update weekly if possible.  
**

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The Doctor's fingers trembled as he adjusted the controls on the TARDIS. His insides begged an answer, his stomach churned at the question and his hearts beated with anticipation.

He sat back in the control room chair and sighed, paying minimal attention to the weak and distant signal on the screen. There was a blue rectangle connecting to two lines that led to a fuzzy ball each- one was white and the other was red.

The Doctor rose and switched off the screen before turning on his heel. She had been feeling tired after, saying how it felt like she had already spent the day doing something really tasking, but couldn't even remember. She was right, but the Doctor was glad that she couldn't- he was glad to never have to repeat that day ever again.

He entered the library, where he found her, laying serenely on the sofa. Her dark brown hair lay loosely over her cheeks, with a book entitled _The Lilac Lady _across her softly rising belly.

The Doctor found himself simpering as he watched her for a moment before taking off his jacket to place over her.

However, her eyes snapped open before he could approach. "Hey," she yawned.

"Clara! S-sorry, I d-didn't mean to wake you," the Doctor stammered. What was wrong with him, he had never stammered in front of her, so why was it so different now? She had caught him by surprise that was all.

"No, it's fine," Clara waved, sitting up. She gave him a touched yet amused look.

"Good book?" the Doctor asked, changing the subject before she said anything.

"What?" Clara looked at the book as if for the first time. "Oh, yeah... I've not really read much."

"Do you feel safe?" the Doctor asked suddenly.

"What?" Clara giggled.

"How safe do you feel?" the Doctor pressed. "Ten being- haaaahhhhhh," he sighed. "One being- aaaarrrgh!" He waved his arms about pretending to scream.

"You're being weird," Clara commented lightheartedly.

"I need to know if you feel scared," the Doctor insisted with a touch of impatience; he needed to know, even if the inevitable was to come.

"Of what?" Clara said.

"Of the future. You're running off with a madman in a box, anything can happen to you," the Doctor pointed out.

"That's what I'm counting on," Clara replied cheekily. "You remember when I said 'show me something awesome'? That's what I meant."

The Doctor smiled, content with that answer. Part of him nagged with the words: _if only she knew..._ but he blocked them out.

"How about we see something else that's awesome?" he suggested, clapping his hands together. "Clara, do you like tennis? Have you had the joy of seeing the Roses Tennis Tournament of 2085?"

"Yes and no- since I'm not a ninety year old woman," Clara grinned.

"No, I suppose you can't be as good looking as I was at ninety," the Doctor pondered. "I had a really baby-"

"Oi!" Clara playfully struck his arm.

"Sorry," the Doctor said, before jumping excitedly and pretending that he had a racket in his hand. "It was so close and so exciting to watch: James Dickson from York against Jasper Harrison from Lancaster... oh, I'm getting goosebumps even thinking about it!"

"All right, don't tell me!" Clara said quickly.

"Fine, I'll show you after you get dressed, eh?"

"Sure, why not?" Clara assented.

Minutes later, she had dressed into a lilac tunic over her black trousers and a red rose, which she had found by her dressing table, was fastened on her.

"What, I'm from Lancaster!" she explained, amused.

"Well, I'm going to have to support York," the Doctor responded and she gave him a look that made him grin inside. "Hey, you have to think about equal opportunities!"

"All right, all right, support the Yorkies," Clara sighed, causing him to grin with excitement.

From the depths of the TARDIS, the Doctor stuck a white rose on the lapel of his jacket and spun around feeling very proud.

"York University, tennis arena, 2085!" the Doctor announced, flicking a few switches on the controls. "Brace yourself!"

"Go on, let's see what you Yorkies can do!" Clara teased, grabbing on to the support as the TARDIS swerved through the vortex.

"OK..." the Doctor muttered. "That's interesting." He had caught sight of the display on the screen- rectangle that had become more defined into the fine outline of a wooden door; the fuzzy balls had morphed into the shape of two intricate flowers.

Suddenly, the TARDIS came to a halt.

"What's that Doctor?" Clara queried, looking at the screen.

"It's nothing!" the Doctor shrugged. "Well, when two things create a lot of excitement, passion or thrill then they creat a bilateral signal that begs visitors to share their passion or hopes, sometimes they even compete and that makes a stronger signal.

"Oh and guess where we are!" he grinned. "Guess where our venue is!"

"Where?" Clara looked intruigingly towards the door.

"Wensleydale!" the Doctor said, dashing out. "Home to-!" He had emerged into what seemed like a bed chamber. There was a four poster bed, which was adjacent to a raven haired man in a black robe and trousers. He drew a sword from his hip and pointed it at them.

"Doctor, I don't think we got it quite right," Clara squeaked.

"What is the meaning of this?" the man bellowed.

"Well..." the Doctor began, looking nervously at Clara. This was not good, this meant that the Doctor had made a big cock up.

"You!" snapped the man, glaring at Clara and pointing the tip of his blade at her, causing her heart to jump into her throat and run like a frantic prey. He had seen the red rose on her tunic. "You are Lancaster! You are Tudor loyalists!"

"W-what?" Clara blurted out, hoping that this was some immature prank by first-class actors. "No!"

"No, your Grace, we are most certainly not Tudor loyalists!" the Doctor declared with authority, pushing in between the sword and Clara. He puffed out his chest, hoping that the man would see his white rose.

The man moved back a little, but continued to circle them with suspicion.

"Clara, may I introduce Richard Plantagenet- also known as Dickon the Third," the Doctor explained.

"I am not Richard, or Dickon!" Richard growled. "I am his Grace the King!"

"Yes, but before that you are a man," the Doctor reasoned.

Clara's blood froze; she gazed at him. Was he out of his mind? How would telling a King, who believed that his blood was golden and divine, that he was a man help?

"A man who has seen a lot, a man who has lost and a man who has, most importantly, felt," the Doctor continued. "Perhaps too much, you sometimes believe."

Clara noticed that the faintest dried stream of a tear remained on Richard's cheek and his grey eyes gave away a deep sorrow. A sorrow that she had known too, she realised when their eyes met.

Richard averted his gaze and lowered his sword without sheathing it.

"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

Before they could reply, a large burly man and a tall man with short grey hair and beard charge into the room, swords drawn at the ready.

"Your Grace, what's going on?" the large redhead, called Brackenbury, said.

"Stanley, what are you doing here?" Richard asked the grey haired man.

"I was merely in the vicinity when I heard a commotion, your Grace," Stanley replied. "Who are these intruders? Speak quickly!"

"Not to worry," the Doctor said, brandishing his psychic paper. "I am Doctor, Earl of Gallifrey; this is my travelling companion Lady Clara, Dame of Maitland."

"Are these real estates, your Grace?" Brackenbury said gruffly.

"I'm not sure," Richard pondered, his eyes piercing the white rose on the Doctor's lapel. "Why do you wear the red and white roses? And associate with each other, as if friends?"

Clara and the Doctor looked at each other and resisted the temptation to say: "because we are".

"We are truly sorry for any offence caused, we never meant that," Clara replied.

"I would be very careful about trusting a Lancastrian and Yorkist who claim to be friends," Stanley advised, but Richard and Brackenbury gave him a half amused look.

"He's right, though," Brackenbury conceded. "These are intruders and should be punished-"

"No," Richard decided.

"No?" Brackenbury, Stanley and the Doctor said together.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief.

"No, because we still have use for them," Richard grinned slyly. He sheathed his sword. "You and Lady Clara will be escorted to London, and your cabin will be seized into Royal Custody!"

Clara gasped and her heart started beating rapidly again, as Stanley's pincer grip latched onto her shoulder.

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**Author's Note: Thanks for reading. It was slightly shorter than I'm usually accustomed to writing, but I hope you leave a review. Sorry, if you see anything weird here- the editor is being a real pain and doing funny stuff. Let me know if anything seems out of place and I'll sort it out ASAP.  
**


	3. Chapter 3- The Long Road

Chapter 3- The Long Road

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**Author's Note: Hello all! Again, sorry for the two week delay. I want to wish a massive thanks to everyone who reviewed, with special thanks to Dolphin Melody for promoting this story in her Doctor Who story "Watch us Run". So, if you want to read a brilliant story about the Doctor and Clara and their adventures, including against the Darkness and avoiding the BarnMal (read it and find out!) then I would really recommend the duology, "I Just Know Who" and "Watch us Run". However long you think it is, it's worth the read, especially since she's been writing this before Bells of St John!  
**

**Anyway, here's the next chapter. It's called the Long Road, and I promise, after this one the story will pick up and we'll get to the first story arc.**

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"Be gentle with her, please!" the Doctor half-begged and half-demanded.

"Or else what?" Stanley spat at his feet.

"No, Doctor, it's fine," Clara said quickly, not wanting the Doctor to get into any more trouble than he already was.

"Stanley!" Richard said sharply.

Stanley held back and bowed. "As you wish, your Grace."

Brackenbury tugged at the doors of the TARDIS, but it was futile, as they were sealed shut. "Is there a key to this?" Brackenbury said.

"No, I'm afraid it won't open," the Doctor replied coldly.

Brackenbury scowled and pounded the doors with his boot; however, he flinched in pain as the doors held their ground, leaving him to hop.

"Leave it, Sir Robert," Richard reminded impatiently. "Have the Harringtons deliver it London in a few days. Right now, we have more _pressing_ matters to attend to."

There was an element of coldness or anger in the King's voice, which made Clara swallow and breath deeply, not knowing what he could do next.

They were escorted to five horses outside. Richard mounted a white coated stallion, Brackenbury rode a red coat- the colour of his hair and Stanley mounted a dark brown horse. The Doctor and Clara were handed two dappled grey ponies, which huffed at the arrival of the newcomers.

Clara apprehensively mounted her steed, without knowing how exactly to control the horse. It began neighing and fidgeting restlessly- Clara almost tore into its main for extra support. But the Doctor clicked with his tongue and stroked the horse, which calmed down immediately, like a child who had been shown a toy. He looked up and grinned at her; she only half returned it.

"Stanley, lead the way, please," Richard ordered. Stanley duly complied with the order and his steed began trotting steadily. The Doctor and Clara were flanked by Richard and Brackenbury, as they made their way out onto the long road that led over the miles of grassland.

The day began to get slightly chillier- or was Clara shivering because of the eerie silence of the five riders? The day began to grow old and worn; by sundown they approached what seemed like an Inn. It was a white stone compound, with windows that illuminated the night like lamps.

They handed their horses to a stable boy, who duly accepted and led the steeds into the barn, after Brackenbury gave him instructions.

The inside was full of merry laughter and music, where the musician was a young woman playing the banjo. She had jet black hair, which was mainly covered with a bandeu. The music seized and the room fell silent when the five entered, leaving the echoes of their boots on the wooden floor.

Richard waved them on to continue, almost impatiently.

"God save His Grace, the King!" the innkeeper, a plump red haired man with a moustache said.

"God save His Grace, the King!" the room echoed, including Clara and the Doctor. Clara noticed that the person who had shown the most enthusiasm was the banjo girl; however, she had no time to dwell on it as Stanley was beckoning them to the innkeeper's counter.

"Five rooms," Stanley ordered. "A guard each for these two."

"No, four!" Clara said suddenly, before the four men glanced at her. Her face turned red realizing the connotation that she had given. Stanley's jeering grin castigated her, but she did her best to ignore it. Clara felt scared- scared at the fact that there would be all these strange men outside the room that she would be sleeping in. What was supposed to be a trip to a tennis match had turned into a capture. At least, with the Doctor she would feel that little bit safer.

"Yes, four please," the Doctor assented, entwining his arm around hers.

"So you and your little whore can-?" Stanley scoffed.

"I am not a whore!" Clara bellowed aggressively stepping forwards, causing the whole inn to fall silent once more and even Stanley jumped. He recovered, his face red with embarrassment or anger. He placed a hand upon the pommel of his sword.

Clara held her breath in her chest, berating herself for what she had done.

"Four rooms, then, my Lady," Richard said quickly but loudly enough for Stanley to comprehend the order in disguise. The innkeeper quickly handed four keys to a younger boy, who looked like a porter.

Clara caught the sight of Banjo-girl as she picked up her instrument, who gave her a sympathetic smile; the way her eyes glistened told Clara that she was secretly proud.

Clara observed that she was fairly olive skinned, a sharp contrast to the fair skinned and fair haired crowd.

The captors ordered ale for them all before bedtime. It was simply one of the most disgusting of drinks that Clara had ever drank, but she grimaced and gulped.

"Lady Clara, would you prefer milk?" Richard asked.

Clara nodded slowly.

Richard smiled and ordered a mug of milk from the inn keeper. This tasted so much more pleasant, yet there was still a nagging feeling in her stomach.

"Your Grace, where are you talking us?" the Doctor asked.

"To Westminster."

"Yes, but why?"

Richard gave a sly smile. "You'll find out soon enough, Gallifrey."

There was no more said on the matter. Eventually, Brackenbury was asked to escort the Doctor and Clara upstairs to their room.

"The King has taken a shine on you both," Brackenbury said, once they were out of ear shot. "Especially you." His words pierced Clara like swords. "Don't think for one minute that you've fooled me; I will be keeping a close eye on you."

"Yes, since that is all you can do, Sir Robert!" the Doctor interjected. "Because of your orders. Of course, you are more than welcome to keep an eye on me."

"I will," the burly peer promised. For a moment, the two stood inches from each other, almost challenging the other to move away first.

Slowly, the Doctor stepped back into the room, while taking hold of Clara's hand. Brackenbury nodded and walked away as soon as they entered.

The room had two single beds on a tiled wooden floor and there was a window which was covered by a navy curtain. A dim candle burned on a desk between the two beds.

Clara breathed to steady herself, her heart racing with more anguish than when she was in the clutches of Lord Stanley. "You have a plan?"

"What?" the Doctor said. He was sat on the window sill, peering out. "I do have a plan, Clara."

"Well? Does it involve using your sonic screwdriver to get out of that window?" Clara suggested.

"No, it involves having breakfast tomorrow and heading to London."

"Doctor!" Clara gasped. "Are you for real? Are you actually for real?"

"Clara, think about it!" the Doctor urged, jumping to his feet. "They could have killed us on the spot, but no, they didn't, because they need us alive!"

"Doctor!" Clara snapped. "You asked me, a few hours ago, whether I feel safe!"

"Clara, listen to me," the Doctor responded, holding her shoulders and looking into her eyes, his own turning tender with sincerity. His tone wasn't loud or harsh, but strong. "I swear to you, I won't let _anyone _lay a finger on you." His hands found hers and the joining of their fingers prompted her to avert her gaze in order to avoid blushing. "When I make that kind of promise, Clara, you can trust me."

Clara smiled weakly. "I know, but... he's not the deformed hunchback-"

"He's got scoliosis," the Doctor said.

"Sorry?"

"His right shoulder is slightly higher, if you've noticed."

"No, I've been too busy..." Clara sat down on the bed closest to the window. "He's not exactly a saint, is he?"

"Nor am I," the Doctor pointed out.

Clara chuckled. "Yes, but he had his nephews killed so he could take the throne!" she hissed.

"Well... we don't really know that."

"Maybe, but we're really not in any position to find out," Clara said. "I mean, we can't just ask him: 'Hey, King Dickon, did you kill your nephews after you locked them in the Tower?', can we?"

Clara sighed. Maybe Richard was only a man who was shaped by his era, but she felt a deep unease at someone who could do that to their own flesh and blood for the sake of power. Such a person was truly dangerous.

"Look, when I was setting up the coordinates to go to 2085, there was something that was pulling the TARDIS here," the Doctor explained in a thoughtful whisper. "Something I can't yet explain, something involving a red rose, white rose and blue door.

"Look, I'm not saying that we should marry him, but let's see what Richard wants with us and what that thing is. It might turn out to be quite fun... and very awesome!"

Clara couldn't help but crack an amused smile. Even now the Doctor's bright outlook never seized to amaze her. She nodded, placing her red rose on the side table, next to the Doctor's white. Clara slept with unexpected ease; the fact that the Doctor was next to her, guarding her like he was the evening when they first met, probably played a major part.

She awoke with the light rays of dawn falling upon her face. The Doctor was sat in a chair before her, facing the foot of her bed, therefore guarding her and facing the door like a night watchman. She could almost swear that prior to her waking, she felt a stroke of the fingers on her hair. She smiled relishing that thought, as the Doctor's face appeared in her line of sight.

"Hey," she whispered dreamily.

"Hello," the Doctor responded, light heartedly.

The moment did not live long enough to be savoured; a harsh rap on the door jolted her into a sitting position.

"Breakfast!" growled the voice of Brackenbury.

The duo descended down to the inn to be greeted with the aroma of chicken and eggs- a roasted serving lay waiting for them at a table in what was supposed to be a pantry.

Richard, followed by Stanley rose, as they entered.

"Come, make yourself at home!" Richard decreed.

After filling their stomachs and drinking some milk, preferring that over the inn's disgusting ale, the Doctor and Clara were beckoned to see to the horses and continue with the journey.

A feeling of anticipation grew in Clara's belly by the afternoon. While the weather was nicer than yesterday, the horses seemed to be swaying their riders more and giving her a sort of nauseating motion sickness that swept up and down her blood stream.

However, they were fast approaching a huge stone rampart, with an iron gate that was as wide as half a lorry. There was a flailing flag of a white rose drawn out in black on a beige background.

Suddenly, the gate began to creak out as a shout of: "Here comes the King!" was heard. The ground echoed like steam roller wheels were being pushed across it.

"Gallifrey, Lady Clara," Richard said. "Welcome to London!"

A road full of cobbled stones lay before them, leading the way into the city. The road started off fairly narrow, but it widened as a slope lead up and the place got more crowded with people and thatched houses and miniature Gothic style churches and halls that made way for this royal band of riders, just like the subjects that spectated the arrival of their King.

The Doctor snuck Clara a grin and motioned ahead. Clara recognised the bridge that they were about to cross, but the foul smell of waste and the brown dirtied river below that was full of things that she dared not look into out of fear of retching, made her worry for the plight of the Thames.

But up ahead was a palace that greeted them with a vast and tall archway that gaped like a mouth of a whale. It beckoned them inside the heart of Westminster Palace.

* * *

**Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed that chapter. The next one will be called "Dreams of the Princess".  
**

**Please read and review! ;)**


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